


The Left-Hand Path

by Kierkegarden



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1899 era, Dialogue Heavy, Evocative of the leather jacket 80s highschool boyfriend you never had, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, if he was actually quite gender non-comforming and also a megalomaniac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: “You’re surely a sadist,” Albus laughed, a bit uneasy, although he felt more disconnected from hesitation he might have once felt than he ever thought possible.Gellert smiled innocently. “You’ll find I’m not. I simply travel with very little baggage."*Gellert convinces Albus to steal -- for the Greater Good. But, of course, it's less about the theft and more about the plucky dialogue you write along the way.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 9
Kudos: 43





	The Left-Hand Path

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, this is a comfort fic, written by me to comfort me because at the time it was written, people were literally being kidnapped by the feds off the streets in my state. Let the record show that the author hates the fascist dystopia the US is rapidly shaping up to be (like...moreso than before. Who knew.) so she got a little tipsy, stayed up all night, ate almond milk ice cream, and wrote fanfiction. Sensibly. Any enjoyment other people may glean from this is purely coincidental, but the author hopes maybe it might comfort someone else too.
> 
> Also, I wondered to myself where I got the phrase "the Left-Hand Path reaps dark rewards" before giving in and googling it, only to find it's the text description for an item in The Binding of Isaac. I almost wish I hadn't looked.

“You know,” Albus said, heeled boots crunching the dried grass behind the barn, “When you talk about a new world order, I get this uncanny image of a hamster wheel stuffed to the brink with muggles in their funny little suits, running for their lives. Alchemically speaking, it has a lot of potential for generating magic.”

Gellert snickered, kicking up a leather doll, one of Ariana’s old things no doubt, that had been strewn behind and caked in mud.

“That’s very dark,” Gellert chided him, “and rather impractical.”

“No darker than what you intend.” 

Would Gellert be called “my lord” as the dark lords of wizarding history had preferred? Albus supposed so, for his own vanity, and not out of regard for the tradition. 

The leather doll crunched unceremoniously under his bare foot. Albus imagined him in some archaic throne room, wrinkles at his eyelids, bare feet perched on some ridiculous gold-threaded ottoman. The first dark lord, certainly, to reject sensible traditions like shoes.

“What do you suppose I intend?” Gellert said, “Restructuring a global empire will never be perfectly neat and tidy.”

Albus’s breath caught as he thought about it. “I suppose you’d repurpose the muggle system. National governments, free from hiding, all abiding laws for muggles and wizards alike. Perhaps an international jury? May I suggest the Wizengamot model as a starting point? You’ll need some high court to try all the muggle insurgents.”

Gellert heaved a deep laugh. “I know this is as impractical to you as your hamster wheel, but it really is my first choice. If we could avoid a war.”

“If,” Albus turned the word over on his tongue, “but you’re not opposed to making an example.”

“I’m not afraid of making as many examples as it takes,” said Gellert, and the dark edge of the wood shaded his eyes as the pair ducked under the brush and into the safe nest of pine.

Albus glanced up at the sun, where it splintered through the tops of the trees. As quickly as Gellert had appeared in his life, time had stopped and the position of the sun no longer dictated day or night. All energy that had once been valiantly directed towards his future career as alchemist elite had been turned towards this buggering corner of England. Luckily, by the will of some good natured demiurge, it had also met by a force just as strong in Gellert. It was no great wonder that the sun shied away in the face of a greater brilliance.

Albus was a force to be reckoned with, and Gellert seemed to enjoy reckoning with it. It was a good thing, Albus thought, because without the stimulation of his push-back, Albus may have imploded into the ground.

But all things happen for a reason. 

“You’ve said you’re opposed to unforgivable curses,” Albus posited, “and yet, not opposed to starting a war.”

“I’m not  _ morally _ opposed to unforgivable curses.”

“Oh, not morally?”

"No," Gellert didn't seem to pick up on his incredulous tone. If he did, it didn't phase him. “They are unforgivably uncreative.”

He produced a small satchel of candied golden currants and began dropping them into his mouth, one after another, taking little time to chew. Albus wondered briefly where they had come from -- certainly Madame Bagshot wouldn’t have her nephew downing such expensive sweets by the mouthful. He shook his head, unable to make sense of his companion. Gellert was so slight, gentle in his movements, almost fae-like, and yet so casually callous. Also rather like fae, Albus considered.

“You’re toying with me,” Albus smiled tentatively, “or you’re a wretched sadist.”

“More a wretched masochist than anything,” Gellert raised his eyebrow and Albus blushed.

“They’re stolen, by the way, since you were wondering. The candies.”

Albus sighed. He’d forgotten to occlumens, naturally. 

“Not from your kind old great aunt, I hope?”

Gellert tossed a currant to Albus. Just one. 

“From the rude cart peddler in town square,” Gellert winked, “You’re safe to eat it, my friend. It won't decay your morals. Your teeth, perhaps...”

Albus turned the candy over and over in his palm. It left a sticky sheen on his hand, long after he put it in his mouth. Of course, even candies obtained through illegitimate means tasted sweet. Taking Gellert’s warning, Albus opted to suck rather than chew.

“I’m not so sure about my morals. Or what makes you think I’m the picture of moral perfection.”

The currant sat heavy against the hollow of Albus’s cheek and he couldn’t help picturing Gellert tracing the spot where it sat with his tongue, long after it dissolved, searching for its sweetness.

“I don’t believe there is such a thing as perfection regarding morals. I just know that you have them.”

“You don’t?”

“I do,” said Gellert, “stronger than anything. Which is why I must put them gently aside.”

“Have you heard of the Left Hand Path?”

Albus was so deeply enthralled in the esoteric illustrations of the Brothers Peverell that it took him a moment to process. His fingers traced the curve of the invisibility cloak as it disappeared between the pages.

The Left Hand Path sounded like some fresh palmistry rubbish to Albus, and Gellert knew he was not gifted with divination. Unless...there was something Albus could recall just barely, a book from the restricted section on the origins of dark magic.

“Ah -- yes,” Albus stuttered as it came back to him, “The Left Hand path reaps dark rewards. It’s just an old term for dark magic.”

“Is that what they teach you at Hogwarts?” Gellert scoffed and then he straightened, walking over towards where Albus was sitting in his claw-footed chair, at the head of the table in the Bagshot study. He coiled around Albus, leaning forward against the back of his chair until their cheeks were almost touching.

“The left hand path has more to do with alchemy than the dark arts. It's philosophy. You'd like it.”

“I’m not opposed to dark magic,” Albus bristled, desperate for an opportunity to show Gellert he could be less stuffy, less English, somehow less schoolboy than this  _ boy _ \- simultaneously two years his junior and more his equal than anyone Albus had ever encountered.

“Good,” Gellert said, “You’re already predisposed. Now forget your notions of dark and light magic. Forget the restrictions and customs and morals. This path requires little baggage. Travel light.”

Albus felt, ironically, heavy. Incredibly heavy and warm, his nose filling with whatever entrancing perfume Gellert wore. It smelled like a woman’s perfume -- expensive -- probably stolen too. The thought gave Albus a rush.

“The Left Hand path requires you to reframe all magic as transmutation. You are a means to an end. You will do things others regard as morally reprehensible, but you will transmute them into something more desirable.”

“That’s your new world order, you want stealth, not open revolt,” Albus’s voice was a bit too high, a bit too breathy, a bit too drunk on closeness and his lips moving up, “That’s how you win.”

“No,” Gellert said, failing to hide his own giddiness as it slid forward in his throat, “That’s how we win.”

The first heist felt more like a test, a recreation of Gellert’s marketplace mischief with the golden currants. They were pricey for candy, at a handful of knuts a bag, but it was nothing Albus couldn’t afford. He was left a healthy inheritance. 

Still, it wasn’t anything he was fully opposed to. It felt safe, timed with Gellert’s effervescent chattering at the candy peddler. And that peddler could be a real cock.

Albus looked from left to right and in one fluid motion snatched a silky satchel directly from their place on the cart into the pocket of his cloak. When the peddler turned around, Albus willed his heart to beat steadily and asked for a sample of turkish delight.

The second heist carried more weight. 

For one, the old bookstore in Godric’s Hollow had been Albus’s summer refuge -- the owners, a kindly old couple who took interest in Albus’s studies and made time to learn his name. Secondly, their intended target was a particularly early edition of  _ Magic of the Soul.  _ It was yellowed, but the gold inlay and original footnotes put its asking price at a firm galleon -- take it or leave it.

Take it, Albus supposed.

“I chose this one for you, since you’ve committed to the Left Hand Path with me but have yet to test those plucky moral fibers,” Gellert said. They still had plenty of currants left over from the past morning and Albus had made breakfast out of them.

He chewed thoughtfully. “I’ve agreed to steal the Hallows, haven’t I? Are they not a higher ticket item than some ancient textbook?”

“The test isn’t the item, but the circumstance. You confided that this shop felt like a second home for you during vacation.”

“You’re surely a sadist,” Albus laughed, a bit uneasy, although he felt more disconnected from hesitation he might have once felt than he ever thought possible.

Gellert smiled innocently. “You’ll find I’m not. I simply travel with very little baggage."

This time Albus didn’t have the graciousness of Gellert’s personality as a crutch. He went into the shop alone, nodded at the trusting Mrs. Moore, and headed to the back of the shop. It wasn’t a question with Gellert standing by his side. Only slightly more questionable with him waiting outside, a few paces distance.

Here in the back of the book shop, the draft from the open window patterned goosebumps across his skin. He stalled, running his hands across the wall of spines. Somewhere on the other end of the store, Albus could hear Mr. Moore humming to himself as he stocked a shelf. 

Finally, Albus made it to his target. His fingers stopped -- crept to the top of the old book and picked it up. He felt its weight in his hands before letting it disappear into his cloak.

They didn’t dare open the volume until they were safely in the confines of the Bagshot estate. Instinctively, Albus turned for the library, but Gellert was resolute, headed straight up the spiral staircase to his bedroom. Albus held the book in one hand and the banister in the other, pulling himself up past the obscure selection Madame Bagshot had framed on her wall -- awards, artifacts, and photographs of Gellert’s extended family -- until he finally turned the corner.

There was a cherry trunk and a small bed and barely room for anything else. The dusky light streamed in through the curtains, catching the burgundy threads of the comforter like they were woven from gem.

Albus gently laid the book on the bed where Gellert sat, legs criss-crossed, beaming. Albus felt his pride radiate, melting away any last pinpricks of indecision. 

“Well?” he said, feeling rather Gryffindor as he climbed up next to his companion, crowding his space. Gellert let out a delightful little gasp.

“That’s how you do it,” He said, “And now we are one step closer than we were yesterday.”

The bed creaked under Albus’s restless weight.

“You told me that I would find you not sadistic,” he breathed, possessed by his left hand to brush a strand from Gellert’s face. He had always favored that hand. Perhaps Gellert was right about him being predisposed.

“But not gentle by any means.”

“A masochist, I’ve been told?”

“To the right bidder.” Gellert uncrossed his legs and stretched, his vest popping at the top button in a way Albus could hardly handle.

Albus didn’t handle it. Not yet. Instead his hand went for Gellert’s bum, which was arching ridiculously towards the ceiling. It made sharp contact through the linen, eliciting a whine that barely made it out Gellert’s mouth before it collided into his own.

The magnetic pull that had scared away the sun now pushed them towards one another -- careening like things possessed.

“Can I just,” Albus said, kisses hardening into bites against Gellert’s mouth and then his chin, along his neck and behind his ear, wilder and wilder until he wasn’t sure whether or not he was drawing blood. He sucked lines of crimson into Gellert’s collarbone and down, letting the buttons unpop themselves. Of course Gellert wore buttons that loosened easily.

“Oh my  _ god _ , Albus,” Gellert shuddered delightfully, head against the pillow and eyes squeezed shut, “Are you holding onto the left hand or is it holding onto you?”

By now, Albus was clear to the line of his trousers, sucking angry circles into anywhere he could reach.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, pressing his face into Gellert’s stomach as he struggled with his zipper, “I’m holding onto  you .”

Albus had made him tea and toast by morning. He whistled as he started the kettle and waved at Madame Bagshot, who had long been awake, reading in her rocker.

“I hope you don’t mind, I stayed the night over,” said Albus, “Got lost in our studies.”

“I think it’s great,” Madame Bagshot said, “My nephew is lucky to have found such a good friend.”

The images of Gellert behind Albus’s eyes as he hummed -- desperate, arching shapes -- spelled neither “good” or “friend” but that was besides the point. Albus had always been an excellent liar. His hands didn’t so much as shake as he plated the toast and spread it with butter. Briefly, he wondered if it would be rude to scramble eggs in a neighbor’s home, before deciding not to press his luck.

Albus was unhindered, not unintelligent.

When he made it back to the bedroom, Albus waited for Gellert to open his eyes naturally, studying how the light haloed first his crown of curls and then his ridiculous, cherubic face. Not a hair on his chin, Albus noticed, more ageless even in sleep than he was awake.

“Ah, Albus,” Gellert mumbled sleepily, “Is that toast I smell?”

Albus passed him a piece, watching a satisfied smile creep across his lips as he munched.

“And tea too? My, am I a lucky lady. And you, ever the perfect gentleman.”

Albus flushed. “Hardly gentle.”

“Just as I would have it.”

Gellert closed his eyes and stretched. No doubt sore -- Albus could see the promise of budding bruises on his neck. When he opened his eyes again, he had the most peculiar expression on his face -- the kind of look that could melt butter. 

“You are perfect, though.”

“Nonsense. You have perfected me.”

Gellert hmmed as he took another bite of toast.

“You like the Path?”

“I like the rewards,” Albus said finally, “and I am good at it.” -- He held up his palm, “Left-hand dominant.”

“Some kind of dominant."

"Predisposed, unfortunately, when my companion is so unreasonably - er, what do you call it. Right, a cocktease."

"My, your vocabulary is versatile."

"Right," Albus nudged, "my vocabulary."

Gellert giggled, drunk on early morning sun. He licked the butter from his lips and reached for the tea.

"You're lucky you endeared yourself to me early - or I wouldn't have made room for you and your giant, sanctimonious hamster wheel in my bed."

"Hey, I've long dropped the hamster wheel. Travel light."

"Travel light, but keep holding onto me, alright?"

"Alright," Albus agreed, and he reached over to follow through.


End file.
